“Is it all right for me to fish here?” he inquired. “I’m not trespassing, am I?”
“People fish through our woods,” replied Eris.
“Oh, are they your woods?” He looked around him at the trees as though to see what kind of sylvan property this girl possessed.
“A pretty spot,” he said with condescension, preparing to bait his hook. “I like pretty spots. It’s my business to hunt for them, too. Yes, and sometimes I hunt for dreary spots. Not that I like them, but it’s in my line——” He shoved a squirming worm onto the hook and wiped his hands on his trousers. “Yes, that’s my line—I’m in all kinds of lines—even fish-lines——” He dropped his hook into the pool and stood intent, evidently indifferent to any potential applause as tribute to his wit.
He was sunburnt, fat, smooth-shaven. Thin hair partly covered his head in damp ringlets.
Presently he glanced across at Eris out of little bluish, puffy eyes which sagged at the corners. He winked at her, not offensively:
“Yes, that’s my best line, sister.... Spots! All kinds. Pretty, gloomy, lovely, dreary—oasis or desert, it doesn’t matter; I’m always in the market for spots.”
“Are you looking for a farm?” inquired Eris.
“Farm? Well, that’s in my line, too,—farms, mills, nice old stone bridges,—all that stuff is in my line,—in fact, everything is in my line,—and nothing on my line——” He lifted a dripping bait, lowered it again, winked at Eris.
“I suppose,” he said, “there isn’t a single thing in all the world that isn’t in my line. Why, even you are!” he added, laughing fatly. “What do you think of that, now?”